The Thneed Years
by Anexie
Summary: An account of some of the varied events concerning the Onceler which happened during the booming of the Thneed Empire, spanning five or six years. What differences were made in his lifestyle, and how did he adjust to them? How did he react to the surge in popularity towards him and his invention? How did he become so quickly a man of hasty excuses and short temper?


Onceler was grateful for his glasses. They were extremely tacky and attention-seeking, and ludicrously overpriced; granted, those were the main reasons why he'd picked out the extortionate shades from the rack of mundane ones that all looked too similar. He'd long since grown tired of them, but they hid his facial expressions well, and that's why he'd accepted them as part of his everyday attire.

The Onceler would never forget what he saw when he looked in a mirror for the first time in months since his company had started biggering. A lanky, skinny man with a ramrod-straight spine had peered back at him, and upon closer examination, the reflection sported a fetching pair of bruised under-eye shadows. But as Onceler stared more and more, flecks of worry, fear and uncertainty had started to appear in the bright blue eyes. He'd been told by various people in his life that he was easily readable, like a book; and with having gained the level of respect he currently held, he could not afford to lose it due to a sudden outward reflection of his inner thoughts. And so the next day he bought and started wearing the glasses, because he had a reputation of a successful, confident, and powerful man to upkeep. The lost-looking young male in the mirror was concealed.

The bags under his eyes came primarily from a lack of sleep, which was a consequence of keeping up with demand. The Onceler had Brett and Chett working through most of the night, with a few hours sleep in the early morning, and they didn't seem to have any complaints. It wasn't like they didn't get paid fairly generously for their - somewhat minimal - efforts. And so the rhythmic thudding of the super axe hackers could be heard throughout the night-time hours, and Onceler was sure that it was only he that was affected by it. He had taken to wearing ear-muffs in bed in an attempt to muffle the noises, but he still heard them.

* * *

The combined thneed factory-and-Lerkim had over three hundred rooms. There were six bedrooms, all located on the highest floor. The ground floor and basement were devoted to workspaces; dimly lit expanses in which cogs turned and machines juddered day and night, spinning, weaving and spitting out thneeds at a rate of knots. The building also held three state of the art kitchens – one in which the staff's chef worked; one which was dominated by the Onceler-and-family's personal cook; and another that was rarely used except for when it's owner had time to spare, and usually ended up with pancake batter smeared onto it's shining surfaces.  
The biggest room, by far, was the Onceler's main office, though there were also many other work areas and side-offices. These were all situated on the middle levels, surrounded by more than a few meeting and conference rooms.

When the blueprints for the building had first come into consideration, questions had been raised about the necessity of the size, and of the number of rooms. Onceler had dismissed these, giving the order for the building to be structured exactly to plan. The consequences of this did not occur to him a couple of months after the completion of the building work, when he took a leisurely stroll through the recently furnished rooms to admire his success. He'd noticed that many of the passageways, halls and rooms were devoid of anything but arguably tasteful wallpaper. Their emptiness made him feel smaller, somehow, and he rationalised his uneasiness by deciding to simply fill up the space with furniture, maybe some games, some technology! He could have an entire suite devoted to computering! And maybe a music room, too; a space to keep his guitars!

But he somehow never got around to ordering or sending out for the required miscellanies, and a year on there were still some rooms in his factory that he just never entered.

* * *

As he reclined in a plush, velvet cushioned chair, waiting for the board members' blurred outlines to appear in the glass section of the door, Onceler reflected on his past. His first ever board meeting had taken place in the very room in which he was currently situated, and he had been the last person to arrive for the meeting. It had been nine weeks since his business had taken off, and just two days since the completion of the factory. Onceler had still been in a state of disorientation within the building, and as a consequence had appeared at the office approximately seventeen minutes after the rest of the group. And as if his flushed and apologetic face peeking around the side of the door hadn't raised enough sniggers from the other adults, the fact that he then proceeded to trip over his own feet and _fall _into his chair certainly had. Wriggling into a more appropriate seated position, he'd shot a few glares around the table and the victims had been wounded accordingly, allowing the meeting to proceed - albeit with a rather high level of comic relief poisoning the required sophisticated air.

The sound of the door handle turning snapped Onceler's attention back to the present, and he smiled easily at his secretary asking permission to allow the suits into the room. He accentuated his nods with a beckoning motion, and he heard his mother trying to suppress her thick accent as she invited them in.

They began to pour in, some acknowledging the Onceler's presence with a controlled nod; most averting their gaze and shuffling silently to their seats. When all were no longer standing, Onceler took a minute or so to look around the table of clean shaven, thirty-odd year old faces staring blankly back at him. He didn't know if he liked the fact that some of the suits fidgeted nervously and couldn't hold his gaze for more than a couple of seconds. Though they _did _have reason enough to be nervous. It was known that the Onceler had high standards for everyone working for him, and that his bouts of firing employees of _any _level were unhesitant and with no prior warning. In fact, he only recognised about three quarters of the board members from the _last_ month's meeting. The new faces held similar expressions to young children on their first day of school.

There was that, and there was the whole thing about him being one of the most powerful men in the country; that his success had appeared overnight; that he'd made his first million in the first year of business and soared rapidly through the social ranks, yada yada yada...Onceler reckoned all of that also had to be quite pressing on a person's confidence levels.

He felt a little guilty for appearing so intimidating to some folk; a problem made all the worse from the rumours and media spin. But he was also appreciative for the distortion of the truth, because he could – and on multiple occasions, had – use it to his advantage. Because what would the public rather hear?- that he was still overwhelmed by the rapid growth of his company and admittedly felt a tad lost in the corporate world, or that he was a keen, mean, biggering machine who would stop at nothing to further the production of the Thneed's success? The answer had been an easy one.

Onceler leaned forward to rest his elbows on the conference table, velvet gloves slipping a little on the unblemished surface. He pressed his fingertips together to form an intricate steeple, turned to the rigid suit to his right and said pointedly, 'Shall we begin?'

* * *

Aside from his limo (which he had only bought because his PR had persuaded him to), Onceler soon found himself owning three cars. He kept them side by side in his garage, and paid someone to look after them. They were all brand new and pristine, had sparkling green bodywork and dark leather interiors, and could be revved loud enough to wake the dead. His favourite was the convertible.

Although the feelings of self-importance caused by his role as a successful businessman had been invigorating at first, the constant meetings and work had become mundane for him. He still had the respect of the public and the yes-men, and the confidence boosting knowledge that the world wanted- no, _needed_ him and his thneed; but it frustrated him that the only time he got to spend as he wanted to was at night, in bed. And then, Onceler's only desire was to sleep; a desire often unfulfilled due to the inefficiency of his sound-blocking ear-muffs.

So, on a bright, sunny Saturday in the middle of May, Onceler leapt from his bed, pulled on a pair of old trousers and a plaid button down shirt and practically ran through the hallways of his factory to the ground floor. Many early rising employees were startled at the sight of a young man throwing himself down stairs and skidding at corners, but only his mother recognised him just as his hand fell upon the door handle to his garage.

'...Oncie?'

His shoulders slumped momentarily, before he checked himself and drew up to his full height, turning to face her with an expression of quiet annoyance. 'Yes?'

'Oncie, what are you doing? Where are you going? And why are you dressed like _that_?' Her nose screwed itself up in obvious distaste as she spoke.

'Mom, I want you to cancel that appointment I have today. And have someone sort the papers on my desk. Not the ones in the basket, the ones with the blue paperclips on them. And could you ask Chett to- no, never mind, I'll do it myself.'

His mother's foot started tapping out a tune on the polished floor, and her next words had lost a little of their sweetness. 'Onceler. Where are you going?'

He gained some small delight in her disapproval, and his voice bubbled with rare notes of genuine laughter. 'I'm going out, Mom! For a drive! I'll be back soon, don't worry!'

And as he closed the garage door behind him, he heard the other mutter 'Don't come crying to me when you crash the damn thing,' but Onceler was experiencing too much of a high to want to acknowledge the mocking tones.

Soon he was breathing in the fresh clear air of the town and forgetting about the thick smog that flew in clouds around his home. He noted with pleasure that thneeds were in use nearly everywhere he looked. Onceler left his car in the hands of an over enthusiastic parking-lot owner, offering a generous tip for the vehicle to be in the utmost care. He then spent the day becoming acquainted with the town, buying things he didn't really need (but making a few independent shop owners extremely happy), and begrudgingly posing for photos when recognised (though this didn't happen too much).

For the most part though, he was able to once again become an insignificant small speck on the fabric of the world, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly. But after a while, he felt like he had no purpose being there, wandering aimlessly with no goal to strive towards - he was only wasting time, really; and he drove away from the suddenly disatisfactory amusements of the town and back to the factory, where he always felt important and in control.

* * *

With the rapid deforestation that had been occurring night and day for the past sixteen months, Onceler was not at all surprised to receive notice that one of the super axe hackers had ceased to function properly – though he was surprised to hear it coming from his brother's mouth in the doorway of his bedroom at roughly sixteen minutes past two am.

'Couldn't whatever this is wait until the morning?'

'Uh... it _is_ the mornin', Onceler.'

Onceler slapped a hand to his forehead before slowly pulling it down across his face and grossly manipulating his features. He sighed heavily, a noise that abruptly turned into a deep yawn. Brett watched him expectantly.

'What do you want, Brett?'

'My axe chopper thing ain't workin'.'

'Your axe hacker isn't working. Right. Okay,' Brett nodded enthusiastically at the repetition of his words.  
'Well, I'm not going to look at it now. I'll fix it in the morn- I mean later. I designed it, anyway. Shouldn't be that difficult.' he mused.

'Yeah...thanks, Onceler.'

Though he was now equipped with the solution to his problem, Brett still hadn't moved. Onceler shifted his weight to his other foot and folded his arms – he felt slightly vulnerable in just his pyjamas -and raised an eyebrow quizzically. 'Uh, Brett? You can go now.'

'Oh! Yeah. Um...Onceler? Me 'n' Chett are sorry about, y'know, when we were kids... when we were teasin' you 'n' stuff, about your knittin' 'n' stuff...'

Onceler's jaw dropped open a little in shock. He suddenly felt a great deal of brotherly love wash over him; something he hadn't had the pleasure of feeling for nearly fifteen years. He smiled at the other man, and reached out to pat him on the shoulder – albeit a little awkwardly. 'Hey, it's fine. Brett? Honestly. I forgave you long ago for that.'

'But we made you cry...'

Onceler's smile faltered a tiny bit. 'Well, we're both responsible adults now, and we can put it all behind us now, huh?' he said though a slightly clenched jaw. Upon Brett's nodding agreement, his expression brightened again. 'Hey, if the equipment's not working, why don't you and Chett pack it in a couple hours early?'

Brett grinned at him, something he hadn't done since they were kids. 'Thanks, Onceler! I sure am tired. I'll go get Chett-' and with that, he turned and began his lumbering stride back down the hallway.

Onceler's eyes followed his retreat until he turned the corner and he could no longer see him. Then he headed back to bed with a rather soppy smile on his face, knowing that for once he was going to sleep rather soundly.

* * *

At exactly six thirty every evening, his secretary would approach him as he worked in his office and give him the low-down on all the information he was required to know; sales and profits, customer satisfaction, business proposals and requests for appointments. There would also have been quite a few phone calls from newspapers and TV shows (and their sponsors), wanting personal interviews and appearances; wanting the Onceler to advertise this, that and the other. Onceler always dismissed these, saying he had better things to do than take part in photo shoots or recommend a new brand of cologne.

There was a knock at the double doors, and Onceler sighed before calling out to permit the woman access. She began the journey to the desk in the centre of the room, shoes tapping a metronomic beat on the marble. Onceler's hands had paused in their typing and were now hovering above the keyboard, flinching in annoyance every time heel met floor. He tore his eyes away from the computer screen as she approached.

A wedge of papers and files were dropped onto the desk surface with a resounding _slap_. Onceler's jaw clenched – what was it with this woman and making unnecessary noise? He pulled the documents towards him. 'Anything new?'

'You have an appointment tomorrow at eleven o' clock with Mr...' she glanced down at the paper in her hand. 'The 'Fix-it-up Chappie'.'

Onceler's eyes flickered upwards quizzically.

'That's the only name he would give me. He specialises in machinery, and wants to discuss some plans with you.'

Onceler continued to half heartedly thumb through the files. 'With a name like that, he should be a bit of a character...' Gloved fingers fell upon thick, glossy print. A magazine. A magazine with a picture of his factory on the front and bright font declaring the name of the media. '_The Unless Press_,' he read out loud.

His mother watched as he flicked through the book, the pages crackling and catching the light as they were turned. 'They wanted an interview and three page shoot.'

'Greenville's own magazine...' quoted Onceler, reading again from the front cover. 'You know, I _have _heard quite a bit about this one.' He jabbed the book with his index finger. 'It was the fastest selling and most successful small-town magazine ever to be published, selling over fifteen thousand copies a week. So they went upmarket, started selling to the _real_ publishers, and now it's an incredibly popular, worldwide 'zine. And all that within eighteen months of the first issue!'

He tore his eyes away from the incredibly popular, worldwide 'zine in his hands to find his mother raising an eyebrow at him, her expression on the verge of a sneer. Onceler toned down his overenthusiastic grin and put the magazine quickly back onto the desk, clasping his hands together in his lap.

'Of course, I only know all this because Greenville's understandably been getting a lot more tourism due to _The Unless Press_, and some of the citizens are...displeased, and have been sending me letters - as if I have the power, or the _want _to solve their little disagreements. Because, as I'm sure you know; the more traffic through that town, the more people will see the street signs that point in our direction, and the better off everyone will be.' His hands reached out again towards the magazine, seemingly unable to break contact with it.

'Oncie, I don't think it's a great idea to take this offer right now...we all have a lot of work to do. It's nearly Christmas, and sales are increasing every hour, and we're all going to be very busy these next few weeks. Don't you remember last year, when you nearly lost the company? I'm sure none of us want something like _that _to happen again.'

Her tone shattered his positivity, and his lower eyelid twitched at the reminder of the previous year. It wasn't a big deal, he'd been tired, they all had, and _none_ of them knew what they were doing; at least he_ had_ come to his senses before signing away all his rights as CEO...and that had been the least of their worries – what about when Chett had fucked up one of the manufacturing machines and _he_, _the Onceler_ had to spend a good three hours of his life fixing it and wasting time and completely ruining a half-a-thousand-dollar coat? And had he gotten a fucking thank you for saving the _entire_ production line? No, he had not; just been sent away to do some more fucking paperwork, so no one was there to see the snow clog up the factory exhaust funnels...

A slight cough from his secretary yanked him back to the present day. He exhaled slowly, unhunching his shoulders and relaxing his fists, and returned his eyes to the woman standing in front of him, who spoke as she rearranged her scarf. 'You have to do what's best for the company, Oncie.'

Ignoring her and flipping through the pages of _The Unless Press_, he found a picture of himself grinning manically and with the familiar magenta knit entwined within his gloved fingers. 'Only $3.98!' the advertisement exclaimed. The corner of his mouth jerked upwards in amusement, and he held the page up to his own face, adopting the expression of the printed Onceler and taking a small thrill from his mother's obvious disgust.

He chuckled as he set the book back down. 'I _am_ doing what's best for the company, _Mom. _It'll be great to get some publicity like this, especiallyfrom the very magazine of _my _business's birthplace.' He paused for a millisecond after realising he'd put too much stress on the 'my'; before continuing and hoping she hadn't noticed. 'It'll be exciting for the fans, since I've never done this before...and we _might_ be able to secure some sort of sponsorship deal or something with _The Unless Press_.'

'Onceler, I-'

'So you can give a good, firm 'yes' to that interview request.'

'But-'

'Oh, come on,' he reclined in his chair, hands cupping the back of his neck and smiling. 'How bad could it be?'

The December edition of _The Unless Press _featured a smugly smiling Onceler looking out from the front cover, in his sharpest coat and silkiest gloves, with a Truffula tuft in his buttonhole and another sproglet of pink fluff sticking out of the ribbon on his hat. The media boasted expert fashion advice on '32 ways to wear a thneed', and a discussion section in which readers sent in their favourite uses for the product. There was even a recipe for 'Thneed Soup à la Peter T. Hooper' by the renowned chef himself. But the best part – in the Onceler's opinion – was the six page combined interview and photo shoot, in which he talked business; denied rumours (the negative ones); dodged around telling the truth about the state of the Truffula forest; and made sure that it was put across that he was an extremely eligible bachelor.

Onceler stopped looking for 'bad' pictures of himself and threw the magazine into his filing cabinet, removed his feet from the desk, and got back to work, satisfied.

* * *

The Onceler had not seen hide nor hair of the Lorax in the past seven or eight months; in fact, he'd almost forgotten the creature existed. He didn't think it that much of a loss. What was a mere acquaintanceship to him now, when he had friends – powerful, _rich_ friends – in all four corners of the globe?

In the very early hours of the morning, Onceler arose from his office chair and slowly plodded his way to his bedroom, peeling off his gloves and loosening his clothes as he did as to be ready to succumb to the comfort of feather pillows and silky sheets. Tie in hand and eyes barely open, he flicked on the light switch by the door. The artificial light from the electric chandelier flooded and illuminated the room, stirring the bright, furry creature sleeping in the armchair by the dresser. Startled, the Lorax jerked upright, took in the Onceler standing paralysed in the doorway, and opened his mouth wide to emit a loud yell.

'Hey! I've been wanting to talk to you!'

It was an hour past midnight; he was tired; his entire body ached and his eyes wouldn't focus for more than five seconds; in short, the Onceler was just not in the mood.

'Lorax!... I-I'm just not in the mood right now, okay?' He closed the door and started shedding his clothes as if he were alone, hoping the other would promptly leave due to second-hand embarrassment.

'I wasn't in the mood for waiting in this over-sized room half a day to see you, but I guess we can't _all _have what we want. Not that you'd know about that.'

Pulling on his pyjama shirt, the Onceler's nostrils flared beneath the cloth. 'If you're here to lecture me, I suggest you leave. You're not going to accomplish anything by being in here.'

The Lorax watched him shuffle into the en suite bathroom, worrisome eyes following the lanky figure from underneath bushy eyebrows. He had to shout to be heard over the noise of running water. 'I can see that. But I don't believe it.'

The soft padding of footsteps on carpet followed the Onceler back into the room where he stood next to his bed, unsure of whether to have his current annoyance forcefully removed. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed heavily. 'Look. Nothing you can say will make me-'

'Onceler. _Listen _to me,' The Lorax stood up on his chair and gesticulated wildly, his expression pleading. 'Look outside! The trees are dying at a _sickening _rate. The air is filled with poison, the animals can barely keep themselves alive- we had one Barbaloot die on us yesterday! Dammit, Beanpole, look at the state of the _natural _economy!'

The other said nothing and remained motionless, but blue eyes flickered to the floor-to-ceiling window on the other side of the room. The sky was dark, but floodlights shone dusty pathways in the smoke and lit up the tree stumps. There was a muffled thud; a familiar sound, one that was heard many times a minute in the acres of what-used-to-be forest land surrounding the Thneed Inc. factory. In the rare silence that followed, Onceler was reminded of the rattling in his own chest as he breathed in the thickening air.

There was a moment when the businessman's gaze softened and his brow unfurrowed, and he turned to the Lorax and his mouth opened and he drew breath to speak, and the Lorax saw unmistakable guilt and fear rippling though the other's blue eyes, and the guardian of the forest felt his hope reignite as the boy in front of him thought about the consequences of his actions, and the Lorax ceased his frowning and offered the other a wan smile-

'No. I haven't seen you for half a year and then you show up trying to get me to feel sorry for you? That's it! I've had enough of your complaining!' Onceler's eyes were narrowed, face contorted as he advanced on the Lorax. '-and it isn't my fault if you're all having a hard time coping. I'm doing all I can to clean up the smoke and smog and what do I get? Freaky, furry little moustaches invading my privacy and hassling me!'

The Lorax had jumped down from his perch and was now being backed towards the door. He was not surprised at the sudden change in the boy's manner; he knew from experience that the beanpole had a short temper and snapped under pressure. Just as well they were alone in the room. The added humiliation by onlookers to the situation would only have made the Onceler's wrath even more intense.

'Now if you'll kindly _get out of my house_, I _won't _be willing to discuss this with you at another time.' The Onceler's hand turned the knob and wrenched open the door far too quickly, enveloping them both with an onslaught of air. It whistled through his hair and the Lorax's fur, making them both shiver.

The Lorax looked up into the other's furious face and looked for any hints of the man he once knew. It had been hard for him and the animals to comprehend this total change in his character over the past couple of years. Once a cheerful, irrationally optimistic entrepreneur, the responsibility of family loyalty and the burdens of expectation had warped the boy into a sorry mess of pride, arrogance and denial. And, as the Lorax was finding out, it was almost entirely impossible to remember the past Onceler when confronted with the present one.

After a few seconds of the orange creature staring dejectedly into his eyes, the Onceler scowled, bent down, and forcefully pushed the Lorax through the doorway with the palms of his hands. He shut the door before another word could be said, and stalked back over to his bed, grumbling to himself.

* * *

Each morning, he stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom to dress. Day-to-day, he just wore a shirt and trousers to keep up with the business-like manner his mother expected of him. Sometimes a tie too, although he always felt constricted wearing one. But Onceler wore his gloves every day. There was something about them that was just too appealing - maybe it was the comforting, velvety softness, or the unnecessary, flamboyant length of them and the rich colour. When bored, the Onceler often stuck out his arms in front of him, admiring the way the fabric shone and how perfectly slender his fingers looked. The gloves had been one of the very first adjustments to his attire, and one of the first things he had bought with his business profits.

As Onceler buttoned up one of his his jacket he noticed that it was looser than it had been last time he wore it. He'd have to check up with his brothers; they must have stretched it during it's last wash. Brawling idiots. Discarding it, he retrieved and slipped his arms through another, identical emerald coat. This also, once perfectly fitting jacket was almost comically baggy around his torso. He scowled at himself in the mirror. Flinging the coat from his shoulders, he instead shrugged on a vivid green waistcoat. It was not entirely appropriate attire for his business to follow, but he could do what he wanted. He was the god-damned Onceler, after all.

Today he needed to look the part because he had a meeting with a load of corporate bigwigs in the hope that they'd invest in his company and he'd make some more money. Not that he needed it.

Onceler placed his hat on top of his head and flicked his fringe out of his eyes before settling his glasses on his nose. He put his hands on his hips and grinned at his now, satisfying reflection. It was curious how a change of clothes reinvented his whole mindset. Ever since he'd reinvented his look, he'd felt wholly superior, and ready to challenge anything. And it helped that the cut of his clothes were so brash and bold. His mother had quietly complained about their gaudiness at first – the coat in particular - but he'd explained to her that that was exactly the point; the purpose of his new clothes was to make him stand out.

The vivid green grabbed eyes and fixated them on him, the somewhat gaudy hints of gold showed the costly expense of the clothing, and the Truffula tuft always on his lapel was to associate him with the Thneed. It would set him apart from the other business competitors - (that was the most important part, he'd said, waggling his finger at her) – and would make him an instantly recognisable icon. And he had to admit; green really _was _his colour.

* * *

Onceler knew that his mother had always been able to use her charm and persuasive manner to get him to do or say things he didn't necessarily want to. He resented this fact, and upon gaining power, wealth, and social status (and therefore, confidence), he had decided he'd let her push him around no longer. All those times that he'd allowed himself to be swayed just to avoid an argument... well, there was no need for such precautions any longer, because who would dare argue with him now?

However, there had been one thing that his mother had pushed him towards that he had not yet resisted. It was the simple notion of him finding another half, and in the past couple of months since she had approached the subject he hadn't fully decided upon whether or not he agreed with her.

His mother's case was that if he was ever to be taken seriously as a business competitor, he needed to find himself an attractive and equally successful partner. 'You are still young,' she had said in a sugary voice. 'And a young man without a girlfriend will be mocked and ridiculed. You want to be taken seriously, don't you, Oncie? You can't do that if you're a laughing stock.'

The part of Onceler's mind that wanted to submit to his mother's orders was fuelled by the fantastic and exciting expectations of romance and dating and marriage and love and having a 'special someone' to be his and only his - and also, as is the case with many young males, the lure of possible sexual relations. But he was stubborn, and had vowed never to break his show of resistance towards his mother because, like him, she could smell a win on her part, and would push and push until he was completely under her will again.

At the next evening business function his PR told him he had to attend, Onceler took note of not only the competition there, but the women too. Not just the waitresses and attendees. The females that hugged the arms of the much older men; or sat on cushioned chairs with one leg resting on top of the other; or sashayed around in their luxurious evening wear; or stood together in small groups, sipping champagne from sparkling flutes.

He'd noticed them before, of course, but never observed directly. Before, he'd thought the glamorous beings to simply be distractions from his work, but now...well. His views had not actually changed. He just now had accepted that a distraction from his work may not be such a bad thing.

Onceler knew that his male companions for the night only had the company of their women because of their copious amounts of money, charm, and power that helped to lure the evasive beasts. And not only did Onceler himself have the privilege of these things, he also had his lack of years on his side. A lot of other businessmen he'd met were at least over thirty and looked older, whereas he was still at the fresh age of twenty three and had only the smudgy outlines of shadows beneath his eyes to challenge that. And his glasses hid those.

He excused himself from the two men with whom he had taken up a conversation, a word which here means 'an exchange of somewhat unequal amounts of flattery, challenges, and boasts'. Onceler made his way through the throng of people to the edge of the room, pausing once in his stride to accept another glass from a tray-carrying waiter. Heads turned as he passed, and more than once he heard ghosts of the syllables in his name; but he was not ashamed of the attention. Surely not. Why else would he wear emerald green 'tails to a black-tie event?

With a sway in his walk, Onceler approached a young woman wearing an asymmetrical dress and who had piled her hair into a sleek French twist. An elegant neck and pale shoulder were exposed to him, and he smiled to himself before sitting down next to her.

She turned to him with an arched eyebrow.

His confidence at once evaporated.

Mascara'd lashes fluttered as her eyes darted across his form, assessing him. Onceler opened his mouth, but it was dry, and he so swallowed hastily, causing his adam's apple to bob. He was most certainly grateful for his glasses at that moment – he had a feeling that his eyes were open a little too wide.

For the first time in months, his mouth started to work before his brain fully latched on. 'Obviously, I would offer to buy you a drink, but the thing is it's all been paid for.'

Had the woman been looking closely, she would have noticed his pupils shooting to pinpricks as he realised the stupidity in blurting out the first thing he'd thought of; but she seemed to be too busy giggling softly to notice.

Her teeth were even, and perfectly white.

'Aren't you the Onceler?'

He stopped mentally cursing himself to high heaven as he heard his name escape from her painted lips. 'Yes. Yes I am.' He paused, unsure of what next to say. 'And...and you are?'

'Sarah. Lovely to meet you.'

A couple of hours later, the Onceler was inviting Sarah into the back of his limo. An hour after that, he was showing her to one of his home's guest rooms, to which she humbly declined, then forwardly indicated that she thought it would be better for both of them to sleep in the same room. Five and a half hours post that, Sarah was hurriedly showing herself out of the factory, and phoning for a car to be sent from her 'mentor's' house. And twenty minutes later, Onceler awoke in a crumpled pool of sheets, which were curiously devoid of the woman he expected to wake up next to. Within the next half hour, he'd realised she'd taken his watch and wallet, presumably along with other items, and that she had attempted to open the safe behind the mirror. And by the end of that day, Onceler had sadly decided that the flighty women who spiced up the bland business empire were to be encountered with sparingly, and to be expected to have no lasting effects.

* * *

One night in the third year of business, Onceler woke suddenly, unable to breathe. His airways were blocked and as he jerked upright, he felt a slick movement of liquid in his oesophagus. His chest spasmed as he tried desperately to fill his lungs with oxygen, and gargling noises emerged from his mouth. He was panicking now. He could feel his diaphragm jumping unnaturally, and his eyes bulged as only one coherent thought swam through his mind; the knowledge that he was going to suffocate.

Doubled over and wheezing, the Onceler rubbed frantically at his nostrils to try and clear them, and when he was successful, he pulled in air though his nose so hard he saw stars. He let out a series of hacking coughs that reverberated through his entire body and forced up some of the glutinous liquid lining his throat. Still coughing, he reached for the switch of the tall lamp stood on the floor next to his bed, and illuminated a ten foot radius. In the light, he could now see clearly that his hands were slick with blood. Blinking hard to try and moisten his eyes and force them to focus, he leapt out of bed and stumbled to the en-suite bathroom, where he washed and dripped crimson water all over the bath tiles.

Since then, he'd had a few more nosebleeds, but less than he would have done if he hadn't set in place some precautions. From then onwards, the windows of the factory were kept permanently closed, and extraction vents whirred day and night to filter the air. And Onceler took to sleeping in an upright position, propped up with pillows, a measure to try and prevent him choking on his own blood again.

* * *

A few weeks later, Thneed Inc. received an unusual request. It arrived in the form of a canvas and a hastily scribbled note on a scrap of sketchbook paper. The canvas had been painted, and depicted an acrylic image of the Onceler, clad in his infamous green jacket and smiling as if he knew an uncommon secret. Onceler held the A4 canvas at arms length, admiring it.

'I recognise this,' he told his secretary, who was standing at his desk like she did every evening. 'This is a pose I did for that photo shoot for that magazine...what was it? 'The Useless Press', or something?'

The woman ignored his question, an action that only she could get away with in his presence, and instead said dryly, 'There's a note. The artist of this piece wants to paint another portrait of you- one where you'd have to hold a pose.'

Onceler's grip on the canvas slipped a little. 'Paint me?'

He held the canvas at arm's length and tilted back his head, observing it carefully from underneath his eyelashes. He twisted it from left to right in his hands, as if it were a large, quadrilateral steering wheel, before swiftly flipping it so it was facing the other in the room and holding it to his chest. 'What do _you _think of this?'

His mother's eyebrow twitched. 'It's... _tasteful_, certainly-'

'I would like you to respond, and tell... him? Her?- that I would accept their offer with pleasure, and am willing to settle on a price once the painting is complete.' Onceler suddenly strode to the wall of his office and held the canvas up to it at eye level, stroking his chin with a gloved finger in a gesture of deep contemplation.

'Oncie, don't you think you're acting a little-'

He turned his head so fast he heard his neck crick. 'A little _what, _exactly?'

His secretary's heavily painted fingernails fiddled nervously with the fur draped around her thinning neck, but her sharp eyes stared boldly back into his. 'A little _vain,_' She let the word hang in the air before disclaiming. 'But this is _your _office, so do what you like.'

Onceler felt stabbing pains in his cheeks, and unclenched his jaw hastily. He drew his attention back to the piece of art in his hands, and stared at the swirl of colours that made up the familiar, admittedly aesthetically pleasing mix of facial features.

Setting the painting carefully against the wall on the gleaming floor, he tossed his fringe out of his eyes and returned to his chair. Green hands reached for a random pile of papers on his desk, and he flicked through them with index and middle fingers. 'Set an appointment for Thursday, in the afternoon. I have a meeting that morning,' said Onceler flatly. He raised his head and looked at his mother at an angle, with a cold expression. 'Leave my office.'

And she did, because she knew from experience there was no point trying once he'd taken that tone.

Two days later, the secretary rang through to her son's office to inform of the arrival of a short, young woman with a shock of brown, tightly-coiled hair piled up on her head, who had three canvases tucked under one arm and dragged a heavy case brimming with art materials behind her.

She was met at the monogrammed doors by the man who's name they announced, and shown through with a gloved hand upon her shoulders and a charming smile.

The artist did not reappear into the main hallway until three and a half hours had passed, and the next day the striped wallpaper of the narrow corridor boasted a four foot painting of the owner of the building, directly below the always-ticking Thneed counter. The phrase 'Too Big to Fail' accompanied the painted figure, who's eyes were drawn in such a way that they seemed to follow the comings and goings of the main passageway of the factory with a vaguely sneering smirk.

* * *

Onceler had never thought much to the act of smoking, or the people who partook in it. Therefore it came as a not-necessarily-pleasant surprise to those closest to him when he, suddenly, was rarely seen without a small, pale stick lounging in the crook between his right index and middle fingers.

Prior to this, a small wooden box had arrived one morning, intricately carved and polished, wrapped in thick paper with a variety of foreign stamps and postal marks upon it. Inside the box, along with a dozen gleaming cigars, had been a request for an advertisement deal. Onceler had had his secretary write back to the sender, telling them that unfortunately, he simply did not partake in such belittling promotions and would be unable to strike the deal; but he thanked them for the gift.

After toying with one of the short, fat cigars - running his fingers along the folds, admiring the glint of the gold-paper wrapper, and, admittedly, posing with it in and around his mouth – the Onceler had pushed the box to one side, and it sat untouched on the far edge of his desk for the next two and a half months.

It had been another lame Saturday, and it was threatening rain outside; not that it would – rain hadn't fallen on the misnomer of the 'Truffula Valley' for over a year now, even though the cracked earth and few, spindly trees screamed out for it. Thus, the air was heavy and humid, and it dragged out the exhaustion in people. The Onceler was not immune, and he found himself lazing in his office, feet propped up on his desk, and literally twiddling his thumbs. Chin on his chest, he glared over the top of the green, thumb twiddling blur at the paper-clipped files littering his desk. And that was when he saw it. The box, hiding behind his computer monitor and only visible to him now at this lower level than usual.

He'd actually forgotten what it was, so it wasn't until he cast his tired eyes over the fat brown packages, all lined up and ready to go, that he got struck with the urge to try one; to actually light up and puff away like he'd seen men do in old movies - not just revel in the feeling of the unlit paper against his lips like he'd done before.

He sat upright and hunted around in a desk drawer with a rushed hand, searching for the matches he knew were within. A while back, one of his female 'friends' had presented him with a scented candle, claiming that it would help him sleep better. Not that he'd gotten much actual sleep when she'd been around, anyway.

Velvet fingers closed upon the item and lifted it free, delicately opened it, retrieved a match and struck it against the rough strip blanketing the paper box. The flame reflected in his glasses lens, flickering vividly.

Onceler lit the cigar hastily and waved the match through the air to extinguish it, shoving the tobacco stick in his mouth in a fairly unclassy way. He inhaled sharply and eagerly, and immediately started choking; the fresh smoke clouded his lungs in a way the factory smog could only dream of doing, and gloved fingertips scrabbled pointlessly on the shining desk top as he spluttered.

However he was not one to give up, so after giving the cigar a narrow-eyed glare, he raised it back to his lips more cautiously. The paper was only slightly drier than his own lips, and he could feel a little of the heat from the cherry spreading through to warm his mouth. He sucked air in slowly through the sides of his mouth. The smoke tasted bitter when he darted his tongue curiously around the cavern, feeling the weightlessness of the gas on his taste buds.

Then, when his brain had decided he'd held his breath a little too long, Onceler formed a small circle with his lips and blew, and revelled in the grey spirals wafting in front of his nose. He felt older, _sophisticated_, because this was something only professional, serious men did, right? If only his mother could see him now. A wave of rebelliousness fogged his head as thickly as his lungs. It didn't matter that his tongue flinched and his lips turned downwards every time the bitter, almost acid tinge filled his mouth.

Never-the-less, that was the only cigar he ever smoked (and the only one he never finished).  
A couple of days later he had obtained, by his own unconscious doing, a packet of expensive cigarettes within his reach. They were less attractive than the elegance of the thick cigars, but his taste buds favoured them more. And they became his of-the-moment favourite possessions; jokes and rumours spreading like wildfire that Onceler really _was_ trying to become a part of his factory, by filling himself with smog. These were fuelled by the fact that he hardly ever left the building any more, and that the smoke that issued from his lips at hourly intervals rose to mix with the permanent grey skies above.

The cigarettes did not become a necessity though, he made sure of that – they were just a way to ease his boredom and give a confidence boost; because however much he didn't like it, the excitement of his business and the haze of confidence and superiority that used to cloud him had long since dissipated, and he craved another fog to brighten his routine, mundane work life.

* * *

Ever since his childhood years, it had always been in the middle of the night when the best ideas, revelations and desires had sprung into Onceler's mind, and it was at precisely 1:47 on the second Wednesday in July that he'd found himself with an uncontrollable urge to play guitar.

It had been an unbearably warm night and thus he'd not fallen into sleep yet anyway, so what would be the harm in staying up another half hour or so? Playing had always relaxed him, so maybe it would help in conquering his restlessness.

He leapt out of bed, then clapped a hand to his forehead as dizziness overtook him at leaping out of bed a little too wildly. When the stabbing pains behind his eyes had calmed down, he set off at a much calmer pace and opened the third door from the left of his wall of cupboards and wardrobes.

Fatigued blue eyes looked fondly over the balls of wool, well-thumbed books and the swatches of fabric that littered the shelves, pausing on a scarf of alternating dark and light grey stripes that was riddled with holes and dropped stitches; his ten year old, abashed first attempt at knitting. Underneath the shelves was propped a guitar case, which the lanky silhouette grabbed and took out, closing the door gently behind him.

He sat down cross-legged in the middle of the plush carpet, dim illumination from the outside floodlights through his window making the metal glint as he unzipped the case and revealed the instrument. Not bothering to clip on the strap, he simply took his first ever guitar in both hands, settling it on his thigh and revelling in the all-too-familiar weight. Nimble fingers skimmed over the minuscule crack halfway down the fretboard, the join on the body where he'd repaired the plastic.

Onceler hadn't played it for a good four years, so of course the guitar was cripplingly out of tune; but he tuned it by ear easily enough, plucking at the strings and feeling them buzz against his skin. When satisfied, his left fingertips flew instinctively into an E chord, then a D as he played back to himself the jingle he'd composed all those months ago when he'd started to self-promote his invention in the Greenville square.

The businessman lost all track of time as he strummed and picked out all the songs he could think of, the music centring around the dark haired young man sat on the floor wearing bunny-print sleep wear and a glassy look of concentration.

A loud, grimacing, accidental bust note was the only thing that brought him back to the present. As his tired eyes refocused, the Onceler unfolded his legs and immediately experienced the undesirable stabbing of pins and needles in both his calves. Not daring to try and stand up with two dead legs, he took one last, feeble strum before placing the worn instrument back into the vinyl case beside him.

His fingertips throbbed, and as he examined them he discovered a fat blister on each one. This disarmed the entrepreneur for a moment, before his sleep-deprived brain reminded him that perhaps abusing the tender skin that hid daily beneath velvet gloves and had healed it's calluses over the years wasn't one of his best ideas.

Onceler dragged himself to his bed in a display of lethargy that he wouldn't have liked any onlookers to see if he'd been in a sober state of mind. He burrowed beneath the silk sheets, rubbing the soft fabric against his ravaged fingers to sooth them, and was contentedly asleep in seconds.

* * *

A few months later, the building of Thneedville had finally been completed, and the Onceler had decided to host a Grand Opening Ceremony, of sorts. And he had a little surprise for the people who would come. It would be a fun evening- and who knew? Maybe he could persuade someone to help him make it a fun _night, _too. It had been a while.

Before stepping outside he took a deep breath and held it, covering his nose, but the smog still invaded his orifices the same way it always did. He felt the rawness in his chest start to make a reappearance, so he ducked and ran to the limo.

The bright floodlights of his city welcomed him, and were a complete contrast to the rolling hills littered with tree stumps and ragged patches of yellowing grass that were his usual view. Onceler smiled, letting his pride and confidence grow as he was reminded of his own success. He stalked proudly into the venue of the night, embracing the applause and cheers that announced his arrival.

After giving a few smug quips to the press, he slunk to the bar, trying to avoid any further recognition. The alcohol burned the back of his throat in the same way his cigarettes did - but it was a different feeling to the constant ache always present in his oesophagus; the stinging sensation caused by the factory exhaust fumes, which he denied the presence of to anyone who dared question his frequent bouts of coughing.

When he was on his third drink, a hand grabbed the back of his collar and his mother hissed in his ear, 'Don't you have a speech or something to be giving? This is _your _party. You need to a make a proper entrance, Oncie!'

He tipped back his glass and downed the last dregs, acting as though there was no hand yanking at his shoulder. 'As a matter of fact, I've got a little somethin' planned,_ Mom_.'

And so he shook her off, smiling sweetly at her sceptic expression, and set off towards the back of the room, where his guitar and an amp had been set up by his command earlier.

Onceler could feel the alcohol slowly starting to take the desired affect – his hat felt too heavy and his head swayed underneath it. Removing the top hat and tossing it carelessly to the side, he grabbed the guitar, leapt onto the raised stage and strutted to the centre. Only a few members of the crowd noticed him, so the Onceler flicked the microphone with a finger, causing a sharp noise to cut through the buzz of the room.

'Ladies and gentlemen...here's to Thneedville!'

Tapping his heel against the floor a couple of times to fix a beat, he started energetically hammering out power chords, twanging the strings violently. There was a sense of confusion in the masses at first, but the guests soon realised that their host was _not_ embarrassing himself – he was _good; _and those that could remember about the old days of 'Everybody Needsa Thneed', surmised that his musical talent had improved vastly. Or maybe it hadn't, and the businessman only sounded great because _this_ time, he had the admiration of others to spur him on.

The Onceler spotted his mother in the crowd, surrounded by other women in furs and ridiculously high heels. She seemed unimpressed, and was one of the few that wasn't at least bobbing to the beat of the raucous music. But Onceler grinned. She was the one that had asked for a 'proper entrance', after all.

* * *

On the day that he'd become twelve years of age, the young Onceler had realised that his birthday would no longer be of great importance to his family. The previous years had been made special because, he contemplated, it was just too harsh to take away such excitement from a child. But on that day Onceler knew that, apart from letting him have a day free from chores, nothing extraordinary would come his way on his birthday in the future – unless he himself made it happen.

And so for the next nine years he'd celebrated alone, but peacefully and contentedly. The only surprise he was given in that time was when, on his eighteenth, his mother had given him a pocket watch with the explanation that it had been his father's. Then, urged on by his well-meaning uncle who wanted him to 'make a time of it', Onceler had travelled to the closest town. He entered the nearest drinking house, drowned the thoughts and memories that were threatening to resurface in his mind, and didn't return home until a day and a half later.

Exactly a month before his twenty sixth birthday, the Onceler awoke, but sat in bed for a while, staring up at the stupidly high ceiling and thinking. It had been five years since the small beginnings of Thneed Inc, and his business had bloomed beautifully. But there was a problem that had recently arisen. It had come to his advisors' attentions that Truffula tufts were becoming scarce, and without enough material, the manufacture of Thneeds could not continue.

Onceler raised one hand to massage his throat – it had become tight and sore again over the night - and used the other to remove his earmuffs. His gaze wandered to the view of the outside landscape through the open emerald curtains at his window. He felt a familiar surge of guilt force itself upon him as he looked over the miles of tree stumps. A memory came back to him; when the factory was just being built, his recently-appointed lawyers had asked him what he was going to do about the eco-system. He remembered his mother standing a little way off, hovering in the background.

'So, Mr- ahem...Once_ler, _what do you propose we do to counteract the consequences of deforestation?'

It was a question that had brought him up short; he'd never really put much thought towards the future. His mouth had opened and closed again without saying anything, and he'd blinked a few times.

'I...uh...deforestation, yeah. Um...we could- we could plant some more trees?'

He'd glanced up at his mother whilst saying this, and she'd nodded. And so it was agreed that the earth would have to be tilled and made suitable for planting, and the sowing of Truffula seeds would begin as soon as the ground was ready. But then the biggering had started, and all of the young man's concentration had been input into the growing success of his business, and he'd entirely forgotten about giving as well as taking.  
_  
_The Onceler got out of bed, gritting his teeth and forcing his thoughts to the back of his mind. He couldn't afford to let minuscule problems like this slow him down. He was sure that the pompous suits were exaggerating; surely they weren't down to the last hundred trees already?

A few days later, Onceler spoke to the Lorax for the first time in years. But, regrettably, he wasn't entirely civil towards him, because the sight of the bright creature stimulated suppressed memories, and when the furry peanut opened his mouth and started to taunt him, Onceler's already short temper had snapped. Then, the last tree had fallen and interrupted his ranting, and the Onceler had felt like a hand had reached inside him and released the trapped emotions in his heart. Waves of shock, horror and absolute remorse rolled over him, and he felt tears moistening eyes that were stinging in the dry air. Then, the Lorax had lifted, the remaining animals had gone, and by the time his birthday had rolled around the following week, Onceler didn't feel like celebrating at all.


End file.
